Let the High C Fly
by TtigaChey
Summary: A beginner in marching band takes her playing to a new level as she’s introduced to a musical world of friendship, jealousy, betrayal, and tradition. My first FanFic, reviews are welcome.
1. Learning the Tradition Part One

Disclaimer: I (TtigaChey) do not own any marching band, high school or otherwise, nor do I own the music for the _Phantom of the Opera_ show. I do, however, own the random shapes mentioned in reference to formations and I simply made up the drill numbers. I own all the characters, some of whom are based on real people, and I have obtained permission to use their likeness. All other resemblances to existing beings or whereabouts is strictly coincidental unless blatantly obvious.

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**Learning the Tradition – Part One**

"**A**re you sure you don't want me to go with you?" Mom asked, handing me a check.

"Mom! I'll look like I'm…like…" I trailed off, searching for the right word. _Immature_ came to mind, as well as _baby_, _dependant_, and _loser_. "Something I don't want to look like!" I finally spat out, frustrated with Mom for thinking I needed a mother to walk me into the school. Plus this wasn't the day for me to stammer my way through a conversation.

"I'm just saying you don't need to go in alone. You're a freshman; you're new. I'm sure I wouldn't be the only parent in there."

I rolled my eyes and groaned. "The last thing I need is my own mother doing the whole 'observant parent' thing today. Just…dinner's at four and you can watch us on Friday. I'll be fine," I added when she got that look on her face like she was going to follow me in.

"All right." Her tone went up at the end, implying she thought she was right, something I hated.

I shoved the check in my pocket and jumped out of the car. Gathering my backpack, case, and folder from the backseat, I turned to face the high school as Mom drove off. I was near the stadium entrance and parking lot, crowded with dented Fords, rusted station wagons, and the occasional Bug. Most kids I could see headed for a little alcove behind the stadium. Despite my assurances I felt pretty much the way Mom had implied. I bit my lip as my stomach flipped and my heart beat a little faster. Not one for confrontations, I edged forward toward the alcove at the slowest rate I could manage without looking like I was avoiding the alcove.

A minute later I found myself passing through an open double doorway in the far right wall. I breathed a sigh of relief at what I saw inside the large room—or rather what I didn't see: people. I knew it was best to arrive early. There were three or four students and a parent or two that I could see, standing around the half circle arrangement of armless chairs, but it was mostly empty, the best scenario for entering a room.

While it was a small victory, it immediately turned into a problem when I tried to decide where to sit down. Without students in those armless chairs I couldn't guarantee that the chair I chose would be my permanent home for the next ten weeks. I crossed the room quickly, keeping my head down and clutching my folders to my chest, and settled for sitting on a low table pushed against the wall the furthest from the door. I dropped my stuff on the floor under the table and proceeded to study in depth and with complete concentration a plaque on the wall off to my right.

From my little table I could see the whole room clearly. A marker board ran along the wall to my right ending in an entertainment system. Probably a tape deck and CD player, I guessed, a VCR maybe, too. A TV hung on the wall above it and a microphone stand stood alongside the shelves. Two large radiators framed the marker board. And a circular hand clock which I had seen walking in, and which I knew was on the wall above the board, was hidden by the TV.

"Excuse me," a nearby parent waved to get my attention, "are you here to register?"

"Yeah," I answered. A nervous smile tugged at my mouth involuntarily.

She pointed down a connecting hall. "Down there."

I left my stuff under the table and walked through the short hallway and out another set of double doors. Out in the main hallway was another low table, decorated with flyers and binders. Two women sat behind it, shuffling through the binders and handing flyers to a set of parents. I waited in line until they were through.

The same smile on my face, I approached the table and handed one of the women my mom's check.

"Name, please?" she said.

"Cheryl M'Culloch."

She scanned through the page in her binder that was already open before flipping a page. "I'm not seeing you." She gave a high chuckle. "There's so many this year. What instrument?"

"Trumpet," I told her. "Right there." I pointed to my name in the middle of the list of other trumpet names.

"There you are," she announced, and highlighted my name, then handed me a flyer, which ended up being a schedule for the week. "First time at band camp?"

My smile stayed on my face. "Yeah." I returned to the table in the band room.

The room filled up quickly with loud students, most who apparently never stayed in touch with each other over the summer, because they formed rowdy groups laughing, retelling summertime adventures, and basically goofing around. Luckily my little table was out of the way and I was in a good position to survey the whole room and grow accustomed to the crowd.

"Cheryl!" a voice called out.

I spotted Emma walking past the board waving as well as she could with her elbows. Her hands were full.

My plastered smile was replaced with a big grin. "Hey!"

She dropped her stuff as I had done to mine and joined me on the table.

"Did you register already?" I asked her.

"My mom's doing it. So what's up?"

I shrugged. "Not much. I've been here a while just waiting."

"Do you know anything? Where're supposed to sit?"

Again I shrugged. No one had seemed to organize into sections yet, and those who were sitting didn't have any instruments out.

This didn't last long, however, as nine o'clock rolled around and the director, Mr. Burrell, came in and seated everyone. My little table had been a good spot after all since he pointed to the end of the third row on my side as the trumpet section. I didn't even need to move my stuff. Emma grabbed the end chair and I sat next to her.

The director stood on the podium at the front of the half circle and started talking about something or other. I was more focused on seeing who the other trumpeters were. Throughout his speech I casually leaned forward a couple of times to glance down the row, looking at faces. I recognized two more trumpeters in my own grade, and probably six or seven others, all older than me. I couldn't tell if the last one was a trumpeter or not. The guy to his left held a trombone, but the guy to his right held a trumpet.

While I pondered his instrument, parent helpers passed out single sheets and packets and a couple other paper items, which I promptly filed away in my folder. Using the rustling of papers and whispering, which usually follows when things are passed out, as a cover, I unzipped my backpack and pulled out a book. I trusted Emma entirely to warn me of something important, whether it be a parent strolling by or the wandering eye of the director straying too long in my direction.

I doubted the director would say anything I had not heard already. At the recommendation of my junior high band teacher I signed up for marching band this year. My mom hadn't taken the news well. Though she never said anything, I knew my being in band was expensive for her. My trumpet was secondhand, and even that didn't come cheap. Every year since I started band in fourth grade presented more expenditures for her. Valve oil, music books, mutes, the repairs on my trumpet when it had taken an unexpected tumble down a stair case, and now band camp. Eighty bucks for teachers, lunch, and a uniform shirt was an unexpected announcement at the meeting for incoming freshmen last Wednesday.

Mom insisted on going with me, despite my intention of going with Emma and her mom. For me, not knowing anything about marching bands got me through the meeting, even through the twenty-some questions my mom asked. After the meeting and when we were back at home, Mom studied every single sheet that was handed out. Once she was clear on everything she felt it was her duty to 'clarify' things for me, as if I hadn't listened eagerly at every word the director said.

Emma gave me a nudge and I looked up quickly, stuffing my book under my leg.

"We're going to sectionals now," she said, laughing at my actions.

Using the clever technique of slowly organizing our backpacks and cases on and under our chairs, we watched the experienced trumpeters pull out shiny instruments and folders, grab a music stand, and head out a back door of the band room, opposite the marker board. Doing the same, Emma and I followed them across the hall into a cafeteria. Here, atop two long lunch benches, the trumpeters sat, with feet on chairs, warming up and organizing folders on the stands.

Choosing an outside edge of the first table, Emma and I set up and blew air through our trumpets, a silent way of warming up, sort of a preliminary warm up, or a warm up for warming up. I could explain it in more technical terms, of course, except I don't think there's a technical term for feeling out the other trumpeters. I focused my eyes on my stand while I listened to the hums of long tones, flow of scales, and a piercing high note competition which was going on at the other table.

I heard Emma test a low note quietly beside me. A quick glance told me she had been fingering through her music while I had been warming up silently. Not one for practicing during the summer, she must have been up all night studying the notes and rhythms, and was fingering them, maybe for the first time ever. I smiled into the mouthpiece. I loved getting new music and practically memorized the whole show back in May, when we first got the music.

The door to the cafeteria opened and in stepped a serious faced woman with a trumpet case in hand. "Good morning," she stated in a stiff way. "To those of you who are new, I am Mrs. Stanton. Welcome to marching band." She looked at her watch and pointed to specific areas of the tables. "Firsts here, seconds here, and thirds here. You have five minutes of personal warm up time, and then we'll warm up together." She proceeded to organize her things on a third table and walk out the door.

Emma and I had different parts so I gave her a little pout and moved to the other end of the table, where the firsts were gathered. Three trumpeters were already there; firsts probably sat there every year. I bit my lip and sat off to the side. I started warming up silently again, only this time I opened my folder and took out my music. No harm could come from fingering through the songs again. I kept my bell on my lap, though, since no one else was playing. I didn't want to be the only one with a trumpet up.

A trumpeter from the group of firsts singled herself out and walked over to me. She had long black hair, thick and coarse, and an angular face. "Hello, I'm Alyssa. Which one are you?"

I looked up with my plastered smile to see her look down at a sheet of paper. "Cheryl," I said slowly.

She sat down next to me and showed me her list. It was all the names of the trumpeters, organized by grade. "I just wanted to put faces to names," she explained in a kind voice. "I'm the section leader, so you can come to me with any problems or questions. I'm playing first, with Carter and Sara." She pointed the two other firsts out. Sara gave me a wave and a greeting; Carter smiled and nodded.

"Hi," I said. I wasn't really sure what else to say.

"What part are you playing, Cheryl?" Alyssa asked, her hand poised over her list.

"First."

She hesitated before writing a one next to my name. I saw her glance at my music, checking the little number above the first measure. "So you are," she mumbled. After notating my part she asked if I had any questions about the music.

Shaking my head, I waved my hand dismissively, hopefully making it seem like I hadn't played it yet. She nodded and moved on to the next freshman.

"How do you like it so far?" Sara asked me, scooting a little my way, brushing back a few strands of long blond bangs from her forehead.

I shrugged. "Nothing's happened yet."

"Yeah, ask her again tonight," Carter told Sara.

"Are you a senior?" I asked, acting on a suspicion.

"Yep," he replied. "We're all seniors," he added, meaning the first trumpeters.

And obviously I wasn't a senior. I fought the urge to ask whether it was odd for a freshman to be put on first part.

"Are you in any other bands?" Sara asked.

My smile had faded, only to be replaced with confusion. "Concert band?" I suggested after a minute.

She gave me a reassuring smile. "Then you must not be. I meant along with marching band. Sometimes someone will do two bands a semester. Like Carter is in the Ensemble and Alyssa is in Orchestra."

"Ensemble?" I asked. I knew the orchestra and concert band were alternatives if I didn't want to be in marching band, but there hadn't been any other band listed.

"The Brass Ensemble," Carter clarified. "It's a big band kind of thing. A lesson and audition only kind of band, so you probably haven't heard of it yet."

"Hmm," I responded, not sure if he was bragging or just informing.

The door opened again and the room instantly quieted as Mrs. Stanton walked back in. Picking up her trumpet, she lead us through some basic scales and lip slurs and reviewed, for those who knew, and taught, for those who didn't know, an all-band warm up tune. It wasn't hard, though she conducted it super slow, apparently thinking we couldn't pick it up that fast. After she was convinced we knew the tune by heart she tuned us. I bit my lip again as she started with the thirds. I hadn't played a note all day, just silent blowing. I also wasn't looking forward to having my first note played alone in front of all these trumpeters to be a tuning C.

Just before she got to me I rolled on some chapstick. Though I've been warned by every band teacher I've had that chapstick would ruin the inside of my trumpet, I can't stop myself from playing with it on. I thought I played better with it. Sure enough, as I played my solo note slightly sharp for all to hear I felt my lips slide to my normal embouchure. Instead of removing the mouthpiece to reposition my lips, the chapstick allowed me to adjust while playing. And it tasted better than just spit.

Then came magic time. It was time to play the first song. I sat up a little straighter, feeling more confident since I had practiced all summer.

"Your show this season is Phantom of the Opera," Mrs. Stanton, sounding as if we were hearing this news for the first time. "It is a well-known Broadway musical, a compelling book, and all-around quality music. It is your job to preserve the integrity of the music. It will be easy for any audience to hear mistakes. That is how well the music is known."

She raised her hands to start us off. I was so excited I nearly started early. I couldn't wait to hear how it sounded with the whole section…

Her hands came down.

_Baaah! Buh-buh-buh-buh Baaah!_ The sound filled my ears to the point of pain. I was so startled by the sound I forgot to play entirely. I came in during the third measure. Unlike my previous bands, with the brittle, mostly sharp, bright trumpet sound, this trumpet sound was full, resounding, with a deep rich tone. I could distinctly hear each of the three parts, which was amazing to me, since in other bands first dominated every song and third seemed to play silently.

We reached the end of the "Overture" opening and were stopped by a closed fist from Mrs. Stanton. Even though I was impressed with the passage, she wasn't. She ran through the passage with the firsts, then seconds, and then thirds. I felt that all eyes were on me as the firsts played. Again I wondered about a freshman on first.

At last we moved on to the second part, a passage of "Think of Me." This was of interest to me, because there was a trumpet solo near the end. When I first saw it I thought it odd that there were solos in marching band music. How could the audience hear the soloist if the marching band was moving around?

But Mrs. Stanton skipped over the solo, saying nothing but that we were skipping over it today. Disappointed, I played half-heartedly until sectionals were over. I joined up with Emma as we walked back to the band room for full band rehearsal.

"They're good," was her first observation, once we were seated back in the trumpet section. Since she was second part, I sat in the fourth chair in from the end, so we could sit together.

"I know!" I whispered, afraid of being overheard. "I can't wait to hear the whole band. Have you talked to anyone?"

"A little," she replied. "Jordon's second too." I nodded. Jordon was in our grade. "Lindsey is a sophomore, I think. She didn't talk to us much. I don't think she likes being put with freshmen."

I told her about my fellow firsts. "Did you meet Alyssa?"

"Yep. You know that solo in the first song? Lindsey said it's Alyssa's solo."

"Really?"

"Unofficially, of course, since auditions aren't held until Thursday, and since a fair audition would take it away from her if someone else was good enough. But Lindsey says Alyssa's the best."

I began to think there were some issues between Lindsey and Alyssa. Not ready to dive into problems with upperclassmen, I studied Emma's music intently. It was common for me to become bored with my own music, and I often memorized other parts to play during rehearsals. No one seemed to notice or care, though it confused me a few times during some playing tests.

"Hey, guys," a girl said behind us. We turned to see Stephanie, another trumpeter in our grade. "How's it been?"

I shrugged while Emma summed up her summer, ending with her impression of the trumpet section so far. I knew Stephanie from elementary school, but I didn't consider her a friend. I listened to her opinions of the section, though, and learned of the last of the trumpet section, sophomores Adam and Kim, and a junior, Megan. And I hadn't forgotten the unknown instrumentalist. He must play the trombone, since I hadn't seen him in the trumpet sectional.

Stephanie drifted away to other band friends and Emma and I returned to studying each other's music. We stayed that way until the rest of the sections returned to the band room and Mr. Burrell approached the podium. A quick announcement from him informed us of marching drills beginning after a fifteen minute break after full band rehearsal. I began to feel butterflies again, this time because so many students groaned at that remark. I looked forward to learning how to march.

As predicted the full band sounded as impressive as the trumpet section had, if not better. I felt a surge of energy shoot through me at the sound of the marching percussion instruments. Unlike concert drums, this group of drums seemed to sing. And there was so much bass! There were five sousaphones and a handful of baritones and a bass guitar. A bass guitar in a marching band?

I was a bit disappointed when no one played the solo in the first song, or in the second song. I had hoped to hear someone other than me play them. It seemed no one played the solo in front of the band until auditions.

Just before rehearsal ended more papers were passed out announced as drill charts, complete with our own field number. The band members were numbered from one to somewhere in the nineties and given a drill chart of their positions on the field during the show. For the rest of rehearsal we were given a crash course in reading our drill sheets to be continued after marching practice after the break.

I hadn't expected anything as difficult as the drill chart, so I took the fifteen minutes of break to study the sheet carefully with Emma. I wasn't any smarter after the fifteen minutes were up, and neither was she. Leaving our instruments on our chairs we headed out to the football field for marching drills.

We approached a huddle of trumpeters to see what was what. Alyssa, being section leader, had a binder of all the formations for the whole show. They looked interesting but it wasn't what had drawn the crowd. Alyssa was writing names next to the numbers on the first page.

"Good, you're here," she said to Emma and me. "What numbers are you?"

After we told her she started lining us up in a straight line, facing the stands. I was on the right end of the line. Emma was somewhere near the end of the left end.

"Okay, everyone," Alyssa called out, "this is your marching order. Freshmen, according to the number at the top of your drill chart this is your position in the trumpet line. I am on the far right end and Carter is on the far left end. This is how we'll sit in the band room and line up in block band. Get to know who's on either side of you."

She then wrapped us into a three by three block with Carter tailing the last line and positioned herself in the first line, where I was standing. For the next half hour the trumpets as a section worked to teach us freshmen how to march. We learned posture, horn angle, and various parts of the foot I never knew existed. We roll stepped and traversed forward, backward, diagonally, eight steps to five yards, and a couple other things in the end, which I think will forever be blocked from my memory by the pain in my lower back, shoulders, and arms.


	2. Learning the Tradition Part Two

**Learning the Tradition – Part Two**

That was followed by full band marching drills, lead by Mr. Burrell standing on a tall, ladder-like podium. He shouted out counts through a bullhorn, reminding us at various times to step off with our left foot, and actually managed to throw in variations of counting the beat, such as, "Left! Two! Left! Four!"

Near the end of the hour I was beginning to think 'left' was an awfully funny sounding word.

We broke for lunch soon after the percussion section started line dancing during a box drill, which got boring after a while, marching four steps left, four steps backward, four to the right, four forward, and over and over. No wonder they started dancing.

With a cheeseburger, an apple, chips, and a doughnut on my plate and a drink in my free hand I found an empty table to sit down at. I was completely surprised at how sore I was already. Emma made her way to the table, along with the rest of the trumpet section after about ten minutes. I sincerely hoped we didn't have to eat lunch together, too. I had a feeling this would get tiresome after another four days.

However this seemed to be a one day event. Lindsey made sure to mention that during Alyssa's welcome and introductory speech. I noticed Stephanie gravitated toward Lindsey after we went around the table, in a rather middle school-ish fashion, and introduced ourselves.

I was seated in what would probably be my permanent location of the right end of the table with Emma to my left. Kim and Megan were across from us. Kim had really long wavy dark brown hair and a full round face, and dimples when she smiled. She was rather serious most of the time, though always came up with the best punch lines to many situations. Megan had medium length straight red hair and a wild personality. I think she was the reason Kim was so serious all the time. Kim was younger than Megan, which made for some interesting interactions between the two, but they seemed to be really good friends.

Adam was Carter's younger brother, and it showed in his appearance, but he certainly didn't mature the same as Carter. He seemed to follow Megan's wild side but more toward annoying. He was loud, rude, and somewhat of a jock. I heard someone say he played basketball and baseball.

As soon as I finished my doughnut I thought of my book lying just under the flap of my backpack. I slowly gathered my trash onto my plate, hoping someone would notice and in turn start a collective movement to the band room. No such luck. I should have eaten slower. I always ate as if an animal stood at my heels ready to eat anything left on my plate after five minutes. Giving Emma an excuse of resting before drills resumed, I slid off the bench and threw out my trash in the bin behind me. Still stooping, I walked three steps past the garbage can and straightened up among a group of students leaving a nearby table.

Believing my getaway perfectly executed I sailed through the cafeteria, out the hall, into the band room, and to my chair. I rearranged my stand to allow my trumpet case to sit out in front for use as a footstool and turned Emma's chair so I could use the back as an armrest. Curse those armless chairs.

I managed to read two paragraphs before hearing the door to the hallway where I registered at. Immediately on my guard, I considered quickly how I should be seen. For a split second I thought of grabbing my trumpet so I could look like I planned on heading out the field. But all I was able to do was hide my book under my leg. Mr. Burrell had already spotted me, reclining comfortably.

"Studying your music?" he asked.

I hid my surprise at his assumption by turning my head to look at my music, still on the stand. It was conveniently an arm's length away, where I had moved it. "Yeah, I guess," I replied.

He grinned and nodded, while heading to the podium. "I like that. You know, students motivated to study on their own time to make class more productive."

I looked away in guilt and gripped the side of my chair, using my hand to cover the spine of my book which I thought was surely visible from the podium. He gathered a thick binder and the bullhorn and left the room without saying anything else. I breathed a sigh of relief, though I couldn't figure out what I had just avoided. Certainly reading a book on my own time wasn't less impressive.

Students started filing into the band room and I shoved my case back under my chair and returned the chair and the stand to their rightful positions. I picked up my trumpet and waited for Emma before following the crowd out to the field.

Our day was about to get more complicated. Mr. Burrell, with the help of various section leaders, organized the whole band into a parade-style formation, or block band, as Alyssa called it. In this block we marched around the track encircling the field to a single snare drum click. Our senior field conductor, Jake, called out commands and we stopped, started again, stopped, turned around, started again, stopped, went to parade rest, were called to attention, and over and over. We marched two and a half miles by my count before we stopped for a posture lesson from Mr. Burrell.

"Chins must be parallel to the ground. Directional instruments need to be on a fifteen degree elevation or, for those of you strictly anti-mathematical, above the head of the person in front of you." He used his bullhorn as a makeshift trumpet and demonstrated. "Now, let's try some playing. At the snare roll off, up on one, play on next downbeat." Again he demonstrated with the bullhorn, a snare drummer playing the roll off.

We were called to attention and started marching again. I could feel a dull ache in my arms and back as I held my trumpet at attention. Jake called out for us to play the B flat scale on roll off. It was easy to keep in step once I was playing; the hard part was playing while walking. Every time my heel came down my trumpet jarred against my mouth and I risked chipping a tooth. I found it difficult to adjust my breathing to power both walking and playing. Sometimes I didn't breathe enough and strained to hold even whole notes of low pitches. Sometimes I breathed in too much and choked on the air and made it hard to control my embouchure. It was another half mile before I found a comfortable breathing pattern.

Another barked command from Jake put an end to our marching and he sent us out to the field to begin learning our show drill. I pulled a damp drill chart out of my pocket and studied it intently. After about ten seconds of blankly looking at the chart and walking around in a tight circle I was still not able to find my spot. Surprisingly, I blinked back tears. It wasn't _that_ bad. Remembering that Alyssa had a picture with our names on it, I weaved my way through band members counting and pacing their way to their spots until I spotted her near the center of the field.

She looked up as I approached. "There you are." She sighed in relief. "I thought you got lost on the other side of the field or something."

"Yeah, well, about that…" I started to explain.

A knowing look crossed her face. "Oh, I see. Let me show you an easy way to read a drill chart." I handed her my paper and she pointed to the first line of numbers. "First of all, when you're looking out from the stands at the field, from the fifty yard line out to the left is side A, and the other is side B. Ignore the forty yard line for a minute and look at where you'll be from the hash mark."

"Four point twenty-five inside hash one," I read where she pointed.

She turned and pointed to a little chalk line crossing the yard line behind us. "That's the top hash, or hash two. That's hash one," she said, turning again and pointing to another line in front of us. "Inside means in-between the two hash marks, so you stand on the first hash mark and walk four and a quarter marching steps toward the back of the field. You can just do four steps. If the spacing's really bad he'll correct it."

"While standing on the forty yard line?" I asked.

"Actually, you'd do that part first, but knowing where you are from the front or the hash marks first helps. Go to the hash mark on the forty yard line," she instructed.

I stood at the intersection, facing the back of the field, and paced out four steps.

"Now turn towards the fifty yard line and take two steps."

I paced the steps and turned to face front. Alyssa walked up the forty yard line a couple steps behind me.

"This is my spot," she told me. "Remember our marching order?" she asked me. I nodded and she continued, "It most likely won't change throughout the show. You'll be in-between the same people in every set."

"Good to know," I said, though I wasn't sure I had understood the lesson she gave. Luckily I wasn't the only one having problems. Mr. Burrell was on the field helping some freshmen and spacing out the lines. Jake was too, from what I could see, and a few other adults I hadn't seen before.

I noticed Jordon on my other side. "Are you number thirty-four?" I asked him.

"Yep. You thirty-three?"

I nodded. "How's it been going?"

He raised his arms in a gesture of thanks. "I'm so glad to get away from Lindsey. I mean, I feel bad for Emma, but, _man_!"

"That bad?"

"Worse," he replied.

"Okay, guys," Mr. Burrell called out through the bullhorn, "welcome to the opening set."

A mock cheer went up from the band.

"Hey, you've got fourteen more for this song," he said, "so get to work. Set two!"

According to my drill chart I needed to be one step to the inside of the hash and on the forty-five yard line. After pacing it out I checked to see who I was standing by. Sure enough, Jordon stayed to my left and Alyssa to my right.

Mr. Burrell climbed the podium and checked the figure. "You think you got it?" he asked us. "I hope so. Set one."

"What's that mean?" I asked Alyssa.

"It just means go back to set one. We're going to march from set one to set two."

Back in set one, Mr. Burrell counted off a beat. "This is a float sixteen, so try to get to your spot in sixteen steps, no matter how close it may be. No floating four and marking time for twelve counts. Of course, I'm talking to Vaughn," he added.

"You got it, Mr. B!" someone called out behind me. A few students laughed and turned to look at him.

I looked over my shoulder to see a trombone player give Mr. Burrell a salute. It was the unknown instrumentalist! Only known, now, of course, and with a name.

"He does this every year," Alyssa said disgustedly as we stepped off toward set two.

"What?"

She jerked her head back at the laughing trombonist. "He's known for screwing up on purpose in many different ways on the first day of band camp. To confuse freshmen. He can't do it now, thanks to Mr. Burrell, but he's no doubt done something earlier today."

"Can't the section leader stop him?" I suggested.

"He is the section leader."

"Oh."

"Not bad," Mr. Burrell called out. "Shoulders must stay parallel to the sideline, look forward, do not look at your destination and do not look at your feet, and stay in step! Set one!"

It took two more times for Mr. Burrell to let us move on to setting the third formation. I started getting the hang of reading the drill chart. This time I was outside the hash and a little off the fifty yard line.

"Set one!" Mr. Burrell called out.

By four o'clock we roughed in all fifteen sets of the first song. Mr. Burrell told us we'd start playing the song and marching after dinner, and handed us over to Jake, who immediately called us to attention.

"Every day, before releasing you for lunch and dinner and when you leave at night, you will be called to attention and released by section, based on individual performance," here a look at the trombone section and most likely Vaughn, "group organization, cleanliness of the band room, and stance at attention. There is a prize at the end of the week for the section that averages the most first releases."

He called us to parade rest, and then to attention, since there apparently was uninformed freshmen movement after the first attention. After we stood motionless for a minute he called out, "Saxophones!"

The saxophone section cheered and ran off the field.

"Tubas!"

There was another cheer, though I couldn't turn my head to see them leave the field.

"Trumpets," he said, "you are released but stick around."

I immediately dropped my arms to my sides and rolled my shoulders to get the blood flowing again. Emma trotted over and we limped off the field.

"What do we need to stay for?" she complained. "I don't remember getting yelled at and we were only the third released."

"I don't know," I replied, too tired to think.

Back in the band room, we put our trumpets away and I zipped up my backpack, carrying it by the straps because my shoulders were too sore. Emma and I waited, sitting on my little table, to see why we couldn't leave yet.

"Maybe there's a special trumpet thing in the show," Emma suggested after a minute.

"There's nothing in the music for it," I told her. "It's probably just something about auditions for the solos or something."

We sat and watched section after section drop their instruments on their chairs and head out to dinner. It had been only four hours since lunch, but my stomach rumbled anyway. The whole summer went by with it being fed at any hour. I coughed to cover a loud growl from my stomach. "This doesn't seem to be that important," I said.

"You think?" she answered quickly. I guessed her stomach was untrained, too.

I opened my mouth to launch into a short speech of how no other trumpeters were anywhere around the band room and all the other instruments had gone when another group walked in. Trombones.

"Hey, you haven't seen any trumpets around lately, have you?" I called out to the group in general. Some of them looked at us, but no one volunteered information.

Vaughn separated himself from the group. "You've lost your instruments already?" he asked.

"Already!" I shot back without thinking. "Are we supposed to have lost them?"

"We mean the section," Emma offered quietly.

The look on Vaughn's face told us all we needed to know, that he knew what we meant, that he wasn't telling us anything, and that possibly our instruments were in danger.

"I smell a trick," I whispered to Emma as Vaughn, grinning, left the band room. "This is some kind of trick or test, some kind of freshmen test."

"But then why are we the only ones here? Where's Jordon and Stephanie?"

"I don't know but I'm not going to waste any more dinner time than I have to." I pulled up my bag and stiffly jumped off the table, immediately feeling the aftereffect of a day's worth of marching.

"Where are you going?" Emma asked.

"I'm going home," I said, locking my instrument in its case, double checking the ID tag in the pocket. "I'll see you tonight."

Emma looked torn between following me and staying behind longer. "I think I'm just going to check around."

"Sure," I said. I left the band room by way of an inside door, walking the empty halls to the front entrance of the high school where Mom was parked waiting for me. I tossed my bag in the back and collapsed into the passenger seat.

"So how did it go?" she asked immediately. "Did you have fun?"

"Give me the week to decide," I replied, putting a stop to the torrent of questions that typically would have followed. The drive home remained silent.


	3. On the Phone Interlude

**On the Phone**

"Hello?"

"Chelsea!"

"_Cheryl!_"

"_Chelsea!_"

"Hi."

"Hey." I let out a laugh. "What's up?"

She gasped. "You would not believe what happened! Wait a minute…aren't you supposed to be at band camp?"

"I _am_ at band camp."

"_Away_ at band camp, I mean," she said pointedly.

"There is no _away _at band camp. It's just at the school."

"Then why's it called band _camp_?"

"I don't know. Maybe 'cause it _is_ camp just without the sleeping part."

"It's not camp with_out_ the sleeping part."

"Then what do you suggest they call it?"

"I don't know…band…something not camp-ish."

I paused to let the absurdity fester. "I'll pass that along…"

"Well, aren't you supposed to be there anyway? You said it was nine to nine."

"Yeah, nine in the morning to nine at night at the school, we're home before and after, and they feed us lunch, which is just fast food, so I don't see why we can't just _not_ pay for that part and bring our own. We get a dinner break, though. Two hours. Just long enough to eat, not long enough to take a decent nap."

I heard Chelsea snicker on the other end. "I'm serious! Anyway, it was weird today…"

"Is it fun?"

I gave the concept a thought. "I don't know…I thought it would be, and I'm excited, but at the same time…I don't know what I'm trying to say."

"Well, Kayla said it was harder than she thought it would be."

"Oh, no! I totally didn't see Kayla today! I forgot… When did you talk to her?"

"She called to see if I wanted to have dinner with her and her parents in town."

"Why aren't you there then?"

Chelsea sighed with exasperation. "Be_cause_ there's no one here to take me, and Kayla's parents said it was too far to come out here, go all the way back to town, and then come all the way back here to drop me off. And then go all the way back to drop Kayla off…and then go all the way home… Cheryl, are you even listening?"

"Yeah," I replied distractedly.

"I was hoping you'd stop me, you know."

"I was calculating the time it'd take them to do all that. And the mileage. My mom complains more about the mileage than the length of the trip when it comes to going to your house. Or maybe it's the gas, but then again I don't know how much gas is, so I can't do that…"

"Just give it a rest, would you?"

"Didn't you work today? Couldn't they pick you up from there?"

"I _didn't_ work today, hence how we're able to have this conversation."

"Oh."

Chelsea sighed again, only this time with longing. "Though dinner would have been great, since there's nothing to eat here. I hate living eight miles out of town…"

"Hey, what was it that happened today?"

"When?"

"You said I wouldn't believe something. When you answered?" I reminded her.

"Oh! Duh…guess what?"

"You…found wild carrots growing in a mysterious garden back in your woods."

"Uh…no."

"You…found a patch of carpet in your room and roped off the area as an exhibit."

"Nope. Ooh, though I do have four less boxes in there."

"What does that make? Two more layers to go?"

"Very funny." She paused to take a deep, dramatic breath. "We're getting a new…_puppy!"_

I squealed excitedly. "No way!"

"I know! I said the same thing. Dad said Storm was getting lonely…I think he just wants to have two dogs."

"When are you getting it?"

"We don't know yet. Mom said they just decided they'd _get_ one, not that they've found one. But it's going to be a girl, that's been decided for a while, if we were to get another puppy."

"Puppy, puppy, puppy…" I sang out.

"You're so weird."

"I wish I could have a puppy…I have to make do with a goldfish."

"Well…there's always…turtles."

Again with the absurdity. "And that's closer to a dog how?"

"I don't know…it was something small, without fur, and…semi-easy to find."

"Forget it," I sighed. Chelsea returned the sigh. "Hey, why didn't Kayla call _me?_ I eat dinner too.

"She did call you. She said you weren't home yet."

"Why didn't she just ask me in the band room? Well, I guess she didn't _have_ to go to the band room, being a flute an all. She could've just taken it with her. Oh, you wouldn't believe—they told the trumpets to stay after they released us all for who knows what and then no one was even there, in the band room that is. How prank-ish is that?"

"They told you to meet in the band room and then never showed?"

"Yeah, they said…he announced it…" I let out a gasp.

"What?"

"Oh, no."

"_What?_"

I put my hand to my forehead and groaned. "He never _said_ where to stay after _at_…stupid, stupid, stupid…"

"So…it wasn't a prank?"

"I don't know…maybe. Actually I hope it is."

"Why?"

"Because then I'd be above them for not falling for the prank…but if they just meant staying on the field…"

"It can't be _that_ bad, can it?"

"Yes it can!" I practically shrieked. "I've been avoiding this kind of problem all day! I showed up early, I kept my feet off my case while playing in the band room, I kept my mouth shut all day when I could have—"

"Whoa, stop! Stop! You've _got_ to calm down!"

"Sorry." I returned my hand to my forehead, from which it strayed during my rant so it could be flung about in wild gestures.

"I think you might be making too much of it. So you missed a section meeting. If it was related to the class at all don't you think it would have discussed during official trumpet time or whatever instead of during a break?"

"I guess…"

"You'll just hear it later is all."

"But they're older! And the field conductor called it out! And…they're older! I wasn't supposed to mess up today…"

"Why don't you go back early then? Make up for it a little?"

"I planned on being early anyway. I should go now since it's almost five thirty. I'll have a good fifteen minutes to fret over it at least."

"Cut it down to ten and get there early."

"Yeah. Hey, is today your only day off?"

"Today and tomorrow; I work the rest of the week. Why?"

I shrugged. "I thought you might be able to come over."

"I don't know. What about camp?"

"It's not camp," I said again.

I heard her sigh quietly. "Well, what about your nine to nine band appointment?"

"We get a dinner break, remember? And after that it's only two hours of marching…wait, no, today was our only two hour break. I forgot, the rest of the week is only an hour and a half. I guess you can just call instead."

"Mom might be getting out of work early tomorrow, and we were thinking of puppy scouting. I should be able to call you at this same time, but I'm not positive, and I don't know about after nine."

"It's okay; I just though I'd check about coming over."

"If you see Kayla tell her to call me back, because she said she was formulating a plan, and I can't bring up any more last minute plans after what happened last time."

"Okay. I'd laugh except we're cutting into my fretting time…" My mind returned to the earlier predicament.

"Don't worry."

"See you later."

"Bye!"


	4. Your New Family Part One

**Your New Family – Part One**

**I** paced through the dark halls of the high school on my way to the band room, though conveniently I found reasons to be everywhere _except_ the band room. What better time to find one's locker but when the halls are empty? There's no line at the drinking fountain, either_. Come to think of it, there's no one around to watch me fight with a dollar bill in the vending machine either_…

I spent the entire car ride back to the school thinking up every excuse I could for when, inevitably, I'd have to explain why I wasn't present when trumpets were asked to stay behind. I had already decided my luck was not so good as to let me leave a perfect impression for a whole day. _Oh, if only I had stuck around and wandered around with Emma, we would have found them and all would be well…if only I had remembered what was said_ while_ it was being said._ But alas, I was a freshman, doomed to suffer through any, if imaginable, pranks.

Like losing my instrument.

I turned around abruptly, almost tripping over my feet in my haste to get back to the band room. What was it that trombonist said about losing instruments? I faintly recalled locking my case, though that did nothing to relieve my newfound terror of not having an instrument when we set up to play the show.

As I rounded the final corner I glanced out all windows I passed, just to make sure we weren't meeting on the field, or somewhere else outside, right away. I paused outside the band room, catching my breath and peeking in through the narrow windows in the door. I easily spotted my chair and nothing seemed to have been moved or altered in any way. And even though there were only ten minutes until six o'clock, I saw only four students in the room, clustered behind a drum set. I opened the door and made for my seat.

When I had just approached my chair my eyes swept the room automatically, taking notice of a group of color guard members off to the right near my little table. The hallway part of the band room had hidden them from my sight before. They chatted noisily while unfolding flags and assembling poles. One girl motioned for another to throw her one for practice, and apparently she really needed the practice, for it sailed through her fingers and landed on the director's podium, nearly striking the hanging TV along the way.

My eyes followed the pole naturally, and saw an arm reach up with the pole to hand it back. Someone must have been lying on the floor for some reason or another.

It took me a second to process the arm I saw. Walking around the chairs, I called out, "Kayla?"

"Cheryl?" A head popped up just as I reached the podium. "Cheryl! Where have you been all day? We were supposed to meet at the spot this morning."

"I know, I forgot. I was so worked up this morning I almost forgot my folder, too." I sat against the wall, under the marker board, and propped my feet up on the podium.

Kayla flipped over to lie on her stomach, adjusting a book in front of her. "That girl nearly bonked me on the head…" she mumbled, so the nearby guards couldn't hear. "Did you see that?" she asked me.

"Yeah. What're you reading?"

She held up the book so I could read the title. "Dracula…interesting. Now there's a book you could really sink your teeth into."

"I knew it!" she said, rising to her knees. "I knew it! I've been waiting for one of you to say that since last week."

I laughed. "I figured 'hey, I'll bite and get it over with' so we can move on." I gave her a huge grin.

She narrowed her eyes and glared at me. She opened her mouth then shut it quickly. I knew she only had one response to my picking. She opened her mouth two more times before replying, "Oh, just bite me."

"You just couldn't stop yourself, could you?" I taunted her. "You walked right into that one!" I snickered at her indignant upturned face and crossed arms.

"I'm not speaking to you." She turned her back on me and held her open book in front of her face.

I smiled and tapped her shoe with my toe. "Chelsea told me you called."

She gave a gasp, followed by a final glare before turning to me fully. "Oh, yeah," she sang out, leaving her tone hanging. "I thought you were home already when I called. It was like almost four thirty."

I had expected her to tell me of her formulating plan, and the reminder of that afternoon made me shield my face as I hurriedly, in hushed tones, explained the delay in leaving the school.

Kayla listened seriously and raised her eyebrows when I asked her if she'd seen any trumpets after being released. "Nope, sorry. I went to the parking lot immediately after."

"Which parking lot?"

"The one at the front of the school. It's closer to our house."

I nodded, but did not reply. A flash of silver had caught my eye and I thought it might be a trumpet player walking to the door to go out to the field. It was a flute.

I sighed, though felt no relief. Eventually, they would be there.

"So, what I was thinking was this," Kayla started.

"Hey, Chelsea wants you to call her back and tell her your plan," I cut in quickly, before forgetting.

"I plan to," she replied.

"So that's your plan?"

She gave me another glare. "If you don't want to hear it…"

I opened my mouth to reply but instead gasped as I saw Emma enter the band room. "Hey, I've got to go. Fix my problem, you know." I jumped up and flagged Emma down as she headed to the section.

"Hey, Cheryl," she greeted me. "You didn't miss much, if that's what you want to know."

I sat and pulled out my trumpet while she did the same. "It is what I wanted to know, thanks, but I need to hear the details, too."

Emma sighed. "First of all, I actually wish I had left with you, because it really wasn't much of anything."

"Yes, but _what_ wasn't much of anything?" I pressed.

"It was just a meeting about a meeting. That's all. But you do need to know that tomorrow the section will be staying here for dinner so we can work on stuff afterwards, before camp starts again."

"What meeting?" I asked. "Today's or tomorrow's?"

She gave me an exasperated look. "Tomorrow's. Fine. You want details? You left, I looked, and I never found them. I went out to leave and they were all in the stadium parking lot around someone's car. Well, not all of them. I think Lindsey wasn't there, and I didn't see that guy first part or the other guy."

"Uh, first part is Carter, and the other would be his brother. Come to think of it I can't remember his name either."

"It didn't really matter that they show anyway, since Alice said we'd be working on trumpet tradition stuff, you know, stuff the upperclassmen would already know."

"It's Alyssa," I corrected.

"I thought someone called her Alice."

I shrugged. "Maybe it's a nickname then. But her name is Alyssa."

She returned my shrug and started unscrewing her valves so she could oil them. "Well, that's all it was, just her telling us to stay in tomorrow. I think someone's ordering a pizza, or we can just bring something. It wasn't a serious band thing so Jake wouldn't say it while we were at attention and the teacher has nothing to do with it which is why we were told to stay a bit and why we can't learn it during camp time." Emma looked up from her valves and laughed. "I think I just repeated word for word everything you missed. I mean, that's how short it was."

"How thoughtful of you," I said.

"Hey, guys!" a voice called out over the buzz of the students, now filling about half the room. Jake stood by the door, waving to get everyone to look his way. "We're meeting on the field, so if you want to start heading out, now would be good," he said, directing pointed looks at the clock.

Emma and I followed everyone out to the field, where the other half of the band was already grouped. Mr. Burrell instructed us to leave our instruments on the track so we could review the first song.

The task seemed simple enough. We walked over to where the trumpets had gathered, coming close just in time to hear Carter say, "And it avoids all kinds of problems, too."

I felt a small wave of guilt and embarrassment pass over my face as yet again I missed something of importance.

"Like spit collecting in your mouthpiece, for instance," Kim explained.

"Or bugs," Megan added, making a sour expression.

There was no response to that, as I'm sure everyone silently contemplated the notion of snapping up a horn to your face and kissing a bug instead. I almost gagged at the thought.

"Well, if you've eaten anything raunchy for dinner then you won't have a problem," Kim said, rescuing us from further thought infestations. "Either way, the Trumpet Circle is here for protection."

Her tone was solemn and she grandly lowered herself curtsy-style to kneel on the track, holding out her trumpet perpendicular to her body. Slanting the instrument, she rested the bell gently on the track surface and held the lead pipe in her left hand.

One by one, the upperclassmen did the same, forming the general shape of a circle. Emma and I followed, along with Jordon and Stephanie, filling in the gaps between the upperclassmen. It wasn't until they started lowering their horns that I understood what they whole Circle of Protection was all about. Each mouthpiece rested on the valve casing of another trumpet, forming a pinwheel with eleven spokes. In this way all our trumpets rested on an incline from the bell to the mouthpiece so spit would drain down into the instrument.

It was ingenious, yet simple. And yet complicated, too. To pick up one trumpet meant picking them all up, and the same with putting them down. Complicated, but genius. I wondered who first thought it up.

Mr. Burrell called us to the first set right then, and we all raced back to the field, avoiding other instrument formations lying on the track. I was surprised at my failed memory of the drill we set only two hours ago. It seemed like days passed since that afternoon. I stood between Alyssa and Jordon, thankful I at least remembered the marching order.

With Mr. Burrell on the podium, Jake used a short, three-step podium to set up a CD player at the sideline on the fifty yard line.

"Okay, guys, before you march and play, he's going to play the recording for you to march to. I want you counting your moves out loud. Unlike how we practiced before dinner you'll be counting and marching in tempo. You got it set, Jake?" he asked, leaning over the podium rail.

"All set, Mr. Burrell," came the reply as Jake bent over the CD player, poised to hit the play button.

"Band, ten-hut!" Mr. Burrell's curt voice ordered.

I stood at attention, already feeling my body resisting the straightening of my spine and shoulders. Taking Alyssa's cue, I rolled my music and drill chart into a tube and held it as I would my trumpet. To my left side I noted Jordon was using a pencil as a makeshift trumpet.

"Band, horns up!" Mr. Burrell clapped his hands on his thighs and then slowly raised them to eye level, bringing our horns up as he did so. I kept my "bell" locked in his direction so I wouldn't miss the downbeat. Mr. Burrell nodded down to Jake, who then hit play.

Four drum clicks sounded, followed by four more with Mr. Burrell counting along with his conducting. Our opener played from the CD player as we stepped off.

"Stop!" Mr. Burrell cried out.

Jake silenced the player quickly.

"What's the first rule of marching?" the teacher asked us. Without waiting for an answer he continued, "You always step off on your…left foot. Let's do it again."

I only moved about an inch from where I started, so I spent the reset time moving my eyes to my next spot, and then to the next spot, and so on until I confused my brain into thinking the forty yard line was the thirty-five yard line. I seriously believed I stepped off on my left foot as was drilled into me that morning, but I took no chances and shifted my weight onto my right foot, so my left leg bent ever so slightly. From straight on no one would be able to notice.

Mr. Burrell called us to attention and then to horns up, nodding at Jake to play the CD again. This time he let us keep going after the first beat, at which point I forgot entirely where the third set was.

"11…12…13…" Mr. Burrell called out after a second or two, to remind us to count out loud, and we joined in randomly. I found it difficult to count, keep in step and finger along with the music all at the same time. "15…16…one!" he emphasized, indicating the mark of set two and the beginning of set three.

I hadn't expected to immediately go from two to three, as during practice earlier we marched to one set, halted, and waited for Mr. Burrell to count us off for the next one. I had a direction change when I stepped off to the third set and almost tripped when my left toe ran into my right heel. I held on to my balance and kept my step until I reached the yard line where I remembered I didn't move for four counts. We were stopped as I was about to step off to set four.

"Here you have a mark time four followed by a float twelve. You _must_ mark time, no hold. Face the front and shoulders parallel to the sidelines. Go back and do it again."

This time I had to walk to get back to set one. I unrolled my drill chart and stared frantically at the numbers, begging them to make some sort of sense in the next six seconds.

"Need any help?" Alyssa asked me as I turned to face the front.

"No," I replied, "I'm just checking." I rolled the chart back up and fell into attention.

"Almost ran into you that time," Jordon whispered to me over the count off.

"And by avoiding me you got off step," I informed him tersely, trying to keep my focus where it belonged.

We both missed the downbeat.

"Left, left," Alyssa instructed quietly, but clear enough to hear over the CD player's shrill version of our opener being reverberated around the stadium, the vast openness of the field and lack of ceiling contributing to the loss of bass.

Somehow, by sheer coincidence maybe, we finished the song after only twenty minutes on the field. The afternoon's practice crept back to me set by set and I finally was able to concentrate on tempo and direction changes. As the band applauded and cheered when Mr. Burrell congratulated us for marching the entire song I forced my mind to march through the drill, actively trying to file it in a more permanent spot in my memory.

"Not bad for your first time from start to finish," Mr. Burrell commented. "But so much for the easy part. That's only half of your drill." He wordlessly turned from us and descended the podium. "You'll be needing these now," he said, sweeping his arms out to indicate the instruments on the track.

A chorus of random expressions erupted from the band. Most groaned about running the drill yet another time only with an added hardship. Some simply complained of tiredness and pain. And a few, myself included, though I was silent in my response, celebrated the thought of accomplishing the last step on the road to being a marching band.

With instruments in hand at full attention, and with slight adjustment to hold the music at eye level, we stood as fence posts in formation, awaiting the hands to descend into the downbeat.

Fence posts. _We do resemble fence posts,_ I thought to myself absently. _Straight and stiff, solid and unmoving. If fencing were strung between us posts you'd see our formation, which kind of looks like scroll work. Connecting the posts—dots, really. Connect the dots. Hey! It's just a game of connect the dots…a large-scale, massive, complicated game of connect the dots._

Jake brought our horns up while Mr. Burrell climbed the stadium stairs to the press box at the top. Instead of going into the press box he sat down on the top row of bleachers against the front wall of the box. He gave a go-ahead nod to Jake, who turned back to us, steadying his footing and readjusting his stance.

"Face front," Alyssa hissed under her breath.

I was momentarily confused as I jerked first in Alyssa's direction, realizing at the same time that I probably shouldn't be moving, and returned to Jake before finally turning to the stadium.

"There you go," she whispered quickly, as Jake's hands lifted, indicating the preparation of the downbeat and the time to breathe.

I tightened my hold on my valve casing.

The hands came down.

_Play, right, left, right, five, six, F-E, E-flat-D, D-flat, two, three, four, one, two, rest, breathe, set two…_ My mind struggled with each element the whole time through the opener, and by the transition to "Think of Me" I discovered I was no longer playing.

I briefly slid into panic mode, thinking it was obvious nothing came out of my bell, thinking myself unable to learn anything, until my mind slid back to the field.

No one else was playing either.

In fact, up until the transition, I was one of a few who actually played.

A huge closed-fist gesture from Jake halted our marching and silenced our silence. I could hear Mr. Burrell laughing before he turned on the bullhorn.

"I can see this is too much to ask of you on the first day and on the first try," he said. We watched him stand and make his way down to the field. "I thought it was too early to do this, but now it seems like a good idea. Get into set one, guys." Once he stepped on the field he passed through the formation until he reached the line of marchers in the back.

Line by line he pulled groups of instruments to the back end of the field. "This is your show block," he told us once he arranged us how he wanted. "When I say line up or block band at the beginning of class, start of a show, parade, doesn't matter when, this is how I want you. Now, we'll obviously work on how to march onto the field and get into the opening set, but right now we're working on the music. You need to get used to your feet moving while playing."

And that was all it took. Four claps, a command, a roll off, and off we marched, around and around the track. It was even more gruesome than that afternoon. This wasn't a simple B flat scale, whole notes all the way up and down; this was eighth notes, off beats, stings, high notes, _really_ high notes, Gs, As, the works. Eventually I lost track of how many miles we marched.

My embouchure started softening, just as soon as I got a handle on holding my trumpet up, while marching, while playing, changing four years of a certain breathing habit to be able to support a louder, stronger sound. I completely lost control of my lips when I slurred up to an E, a simple E, and my lips folded and I felt the familiar break between the open C and open E, the point where my embouchure needed to change in order to hit the higher notes. The break stopped me. My sound fizzled out my bell and I pulled my lips away from the mouthpiece. I could no longer buzz.

7


End file.
